November 18th, 2013
When Netflix stops to buffer or
Your heater suddenly turns off
When the music silences before going to the next song
Do you hear the buzz?
The wind is blowing through the treetops and I feel I’m laying on a dance floor under lower class poverty ridden Mexican women. They spin so fast, the edge of their skirts can touch the dreams they have for the future.
There’s a kitten I’m calling to. It’s cold and wet and I can help it but it doesn’t come. I wonder if that’s what my father feels like. He always called me kitten.
I left because I wanted to avoid that buzz.
Every time I’ve left it’s been to avoid the buzz.
I’m blasting Iris by the Goo goo Dolls but I can still hear it. It’s a steady buzz in my head, nine times louder than my heart beat.
I told them not to look for me and after two hours they haven’t. I forget that no only meant yes to him.
Rape is a funny thing. It’s as if he knew I’d be a bad person so found a way for consistent punishment. Endless punishment.
I got cold and I tried to run but the tree stopped me.
If I make it through the night, I’ll have to explain the cuts across my neck.
If I don’t, someone will find me when they miss the goal and their disk flies away.
They will never finish their game.
They will never hear the clink when the frisbee meets the metal basket.
Instead they’ll hear the buzz.
August 13th, 2013
When a writer closes their eyes to go to a “happy place”
They don’t picture the lake, ocean, or grandma’s kitchen
When I want to be at peace, I recall all those I’ve seen
The girl with the demitasse and the constellation tattoos
Heart broken by a man who exchanged fists instead of kisses
Pens and paintbrushes became her life- taking pretty things and making them beautiful
The perky six year old who collects fallen leaves to keep safe all winter
So when Spring comes around, he can bury them in the park
Keeping pretty things around for people to look at
The shy analytical barista with a beard and glasses
Who does long division on napkins during break
Only finding peace when stargazing with kids in the park
These people will never speak to me, or each other
But as a writer, I can connect them all
What place is happier then that?
August 13th, 2013
Faint light from lighters lead the path to our hangout
Layers of paint make the carved name in the mausoleum, invisible
The ground, once littered in hushed violets, now caked under trampled glass bottles
Kids come here when they want to find others like them-
Hating themselves, but scared of change.
Their heartbeats a riot, their minds chanting regrets like an anthem
I was told God is everywhere and I wonder why he slums where his name is cursed
Sometimes I think this is a monument of his failures and
He comes to find others like him-
Hating themselves, but scared of change.
June 30th, 2013
An open letter to the guy with the “choose life” tattoo, that told me to kill myself.
What would your first girlfriend- the one with the pretty white dress-think of you now?
“A fine upstanding man” her grandma tells her. “Solid Christian values.”
She never told her grandma about the time your hands slipped up her thighs
“We both know we’ll be married some day. We might as well do it now.”
She never told her grandma that her moans to God were prayers
“As long as you love me, I guess it’s okay.”
The day you graduated, she expected a proposal- Instead she got a kiss goodbye
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November 16th, 2012
I’m tired of my body being a topic of conversation during foreplay.
The truth is, when kissing leads to touching and clothes start coming off, I get scared.
As hands cover my thighs I remember when I had the pleasure of only being ashamed of the fat on my body.
That’s an easy thing to get over because they know before they get you in bed, that you’re fat.
He got what he bargained for on that one but the most embarrassing part of my body is not visible while I’m clothed.
Tonight his touch burns me with fear as if his fingernails were claws dancing recklessly above my veins.
As soon as my legs are bare, I get goosebumps of anticipation.
The god damn tattoo draws attention and I hope he doesn’t notice,
But I feel his kisses slow down when he reaches my thighs.
His fingertips start tracing in a different way, feeling the way how scars raise millimeters above the skin still managing to stand out like mountains in Kansas.
I stop moaning in sync with his movements. I know what comes next.
Shifting up on his arms he looks at me, climbing back up my body to kiss my lips.
“I’m sorry.” He tells me, “I’m sorry.”
Having to push away the hope we’re going any further tonight, I sigh, letting out months of curbed frustration.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t be sorry.”
He doesn’t like this answer. He wants to stay up and talk about them. He wants me to tell him a story about every time I bled. Then he’ll be okay with it. He needs a reason.
I remember when I wanted people to ask. I wanted them to notice and care and pay attention and now the scars host pure resentment.
I wish I would of used the medication earlier.
I wish I would of cut more so I could claim it was a skin condition.
I wish he was blind so he wouldn’t notice
but I never wish to go back.
Ashamed of the defects but solid behind their reasons.
This is not a topic of conversation, at least, I don’t want it to be.
Not every sad man on the bus needs to comment on the lighter burns covering my arm.
I just want to be able to have sex without telling them, “Yeah. I used to cut myself. I used to burn myself. I used to rip my skin open because I couldn’t breathe or think or live without it.”
Why aren’t self induced scars as sexy as the results of last year’s knife fight?
Why can’t we fool around strategically placed silence?
Either way, you won’t want to talk to me in the morning.
Either way, the scars will still be there, I can only hope they keep fading
like your faith in me.
November 3rd, 2012
I never wanted to be a ballerina. I never wanted to be an astronaut. I never even wanted to be a rock star. Since age 5, I wanted to be a teacher. A shepherd. A compass.
Directing the sheep and teaching them to be wolves.
I wanted to be a pencil, a paintbrush, a muse.
Finding the kids who cry themselves to sleep and replacing their shot glasses and razor blades with this new age thing called art.
My goal in life since I knew the definition of the word was to inspire. To trigger the next Van Gogh. Not to better my own life, but society as a whole.
Like all the other dreaming children who became plumbers and insurance salesmen instead of dancers and spacemen, it all fell apart.
Acne and emptiness came hand in hand. I no longer knew who I was, and what I wanted to be became no more then an optimistic, “one day.”
My mind was once a thrift store, everything was second hand, but good quality.
Now it’s a flea market. Cheap Dora the Explorer knock offs drowning out any good thing that could possibly manifest.
I can’t inspire anything when my thoughts consist of the future and how the consequences of my life choices would fuck it all up.
Floating along, too busy avoiding the rocks and whirlpools to build the awesome waterslide I once had the courage to imagine.
What it comes down to, is I’ve lost my inspiration to inspire and that’s just sad.